Tears of the Clown
by Dogbreathsan
Summary: A continuation of "Tears of the Bat" - but it should stand on its own. Things are not settled with Harley, and she intends to settle things. Rated T for violence, alcohol and cigarette use, violence, adult themes but NOT sex - well, not much anyway, violence. Oh, did I mention the violence.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I don't own any of Batman, Joker, Quinn or the Commissioner or any of the fine characters in the Batman Universe. I really even don't own the characters I came up with. These named characters all belong to the DC Comics universe and their media group, except for the characters I came up with who have their own lives, if only in my head. I'm just borrowing them. I'll put them back. Honest._

_Also, I mention alcohol, a lot. This is not a recommendation of or for alcohol; it is just an observation of the human condition. Kids under the legal age in your respective jurisdictions do not do this at home. Or in a friends home. Most certainly not in public._

**CHAPTER 1**

The woman sat primly in the armless chair facing three people behind the table. The room could have been any institutional room, in a school or office, but the bars on the window and the safety glass in that window told of another venue, of a higher-security venue.

The woman was approaching her middle years but still had a way to go, attractive with pleasant, almost elfin features and dark blonde hair. She was modestly groomed with little in the way of makeup on; foundation, a faint blush, a demure lipstick barely darker than her natural lip color. Were she to stand she would be seen to be of a smaller stature, well muscled and lithe in an athletic way. Her poise sitting bespoke an athletic background. Her hands were relaxed in her lap.

The three people behind the institutional table were two men and a woman, all in their later middle years. All were dour of expression, attentive to the woman before them. Each had similar files at hand. The woman spoke.

"Miss Quinn…" she began.

"Excuse me, please, Mrs. James," the younger woman being addressed interrupted. "I apologize, but I no longer go by 'Harley Quinn'. I have renounced my criminal past. Please call me by my birth name, Harleen Quinzel, or, if you please, Dr. Quinzel."

"Miss, Quinn, you are no longer a doctor."

"With respect, Mrs. James, while my felonious past has caused me to lose my license to practice medicine in this state, I do still retain my degree as a medical doctor and as such I do indeed still merit the honorific 'Doctor'. I also still retain my doctorate in Psychology and by that I also merit the honorific 'Doctor'. Please, ma'am, I'm trying to put Harley behind me…"

The man to the woman's left spoke up. "She has a point there, Claire. One way for her to work beyond her criminal past is to embrace the person she was before she turned to crime."

The woman nodded in approval. "Yes, I agree. My apologies… Dr. Quinzel."

The younger woman gave a small nod and a slight smile to the older woman. "Thank you, Ma'am."

Again, the older woman spoke. "This review board has completed your evaluation for parole. Would you hear our findings?"

A deep breath, then, "Yes, Ma'am, I would."

The older woman nodded, then continued, "After careful evaluation of your file the board finds that it would _not_ be in the best interests of the state to grant you parole at this time. Do you understand what this means, Dr. Quinzel?"

The younger woman seemed to deflate in her chair. She hung her head slightly and said in a clear, firm voice "Yes, Ma'am, I do understand. The outcome is not unanticipated. I do thank you for your consideration." She raised her head to regard the review board before her.

The man on the woman's right, the younger of the two men if only slightly, then spoke up. "Actually, Dr. Quinzel, we are pleased you thought to stress your titles and education."

The younger woman tilted her head slightly. "Sir?" she asked in a slightly puzzled tone.

The woman at the table continued. "Yes. Well, as I said, we cannot in good conscience yet grant you parole. But, would you consider something a bit out of the ordinary? It would allow you to show your bona fides, it would allow the state to better adjudge your reformed character, and, quite frankly, it would help us here at Arkham Asylum."

Again, the young woman seemed perplexed. "Ma'am, I apologize, but I don't quite follow?"

The older woman continued. "In light of your background as a psychiatrist as well as a psychologist, we'd like to offer you an adjunct position here at Arkham Asylum. We have been in discussion with the state Board of Medical Examiners, and, while the discussion is still in progress the Board is not totally opposed to this idea of you working here. Of course your work would be done under the supervision of one or all of the other attending staff and you'd have no prescribing privileges – you'd effectively be an intern again. But, and this is a major point, you _would _working as a doctor, you'd be doing a service to the state and more importantly, to yourself."

"Resident" the younger woman said.

"I beg your pardon, Dr. Quinzel?" the older woman asked.

"I'd effectively be a resident, not an intern. A resident in the strictest term as I would still be an inmate here at Arkham, resident in Arkham."

The younger man barked a laugh. "Oh my, that does bring back memories. Yes, Dr. Quinzel, you would be a _resident_, which puts you one notch higher than an intern. You know we will work you ragged, don't you?" he continued.

"Yes, sir, but it would be work, work I've done, work I've been good at," the young woman answered levelly, "work I will be good at again."

The older man spoke up, all beaming smiles and jolly good fellow. "Excellent, Dr. Quinzel. Now that you've shed the influence of that dastardly beast Joker we have indeed seen improvement in you. We think you will do very well in this."

"Dastardly… Beast… Yes, Mr. Henry," the young woman said quietly. Yes, she thought to herself. Yes, Mr. Henry, dastardly beast indeed.

The older woman concluded, "Very well, Dr. Quinzel, if you have no further questions or comments for us, you are dismissed."

The young woman stood. She gave a small nod to the three behind the table. "Mrs. James, Dr. Reid, Mr. Henry… thank you for your kindness and consideration. And hope. Thank you most for the hope of a better future."

The young woman nodded to the trio again then turned to go to the door where she let herself out.

Closing the door, Harley Quinn smiled the first real smile she'd smiled since the death of Joker. Dastardly beast, indeed, Mr. J. she thought. Oh, she'd show them dastardly beast indeed, now wouldn't she?

_A/N: No legitimate or reasonably sane organization would offer an inmate this kind of deal. But, then again, Arkham Asylum and reasonably sane don't belong together in the same sentence. Really, the whole idea is fraught with all sorts of medico-legal issues. But this is my story and I'm asking you to suspend disbelief. I mean, you're reading about a guy who dresses up as a bat, fer pitysake._


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I don't own any of Batman, Joker, Quinn or the Commissioner or any of the fine characters in the Batman Universe. I really even don't own the characters I came up with. These named characters all belong to the DC Comics universe and their media group, except for the characters I came up with who have their own lives, if only in my head. I'm just borrowing them. I'll put them back. Honest._

_Also, I mention alcohol, a lot. This is not a recommendation of or for alcohol; it is just an observation of the human condition. Kids under the legal age in your respective jurisdictions do not do this at home. Or in a friends home. Most certainly not in public._

**CHAPTER 2**

The doctor set her drink on her desk, stood, walked to her window. This was an old building, not one of those new buildings with sealed windows. No, this window could actually be opened. She did so, swinging the window to the right, looking down some seven floors to the street below. She then turned her attention to the left, to the man crouched there on the small - very small – ledge that circled the building.

"Won't you come in, Batman?" she said to the man, stepping back to make room for him to enter.

"You know," she said, "You're welcome to use the door."

"No, I don't think so. I'm a traditionalist and the window has become a tradition."

Batman entered the room, walked over to the leather-covered chaise next to the armchair. He stood, regarding the doctor. "Please, have a seat, Batman" the woman said, retrieving her drink from her desk to seat herself in the armchair. "Would you care for a drink?" she then asked.

"No, thank you, doctor." He sniffed. "Southern Comfort?"

A slight, relaxed laugh from the woman. "What can I say, I like the flavor. At least it's neat and not drowned in cola."

Batman grinned wryly, seating himself on the edge of the chaise. "It seems lately that everyone I talk to has a drink in their hands" he said.

The doctor smiled. "Were you aware that Gotham has the highest per capita consumption of alcohol in the United States?"

A slight frown. "Yes, I do believe I was aware of that factoid" was his answer.

The doctor continued, "What generally is not thoroughly appreciated is that Gotham also has one of the lowest alcoholism rates in the country. What can one glean from that, do you think?"

"I wasn't aware of that last. I've not given it any thought either way. _Is_ there something to be gleaned, as you say?"

A sip. "A couple things, actually. First, we Gothamites self-medicate. A lot. I'm doing that right now, as you may have gathered. This has been one of the prime functions of alcohol, well, ever since Noah got off the ark, grew some grapes and got naked-on-his-ass drunk."

A snort and a grin from Batman. "I remember reading that part of Genesis. I'd just never thought of it quite that way, nor heard it quite so bluntly."

A smile from the doctor. "Next, we can see something of an experiment in social Darwinism, or as some would say, evolution in action. Why would you surmise Gotham has so few alcoholics, especially in the streets?"

A moment of silence, then: "Our crime rate. It's tough to be a falling down drunk and survive on the streets of Gotham."

Another smile. Another sip. "Got it in one. While there is no real evidence to back this next conjecture, it is the crime rate in Gotham that is helping to drive the alcohol consumption. We have so many citizens who have lost so much due to the crime. But, and again this is another conjecture without evidence, we Gothamites are a resilient bunch. We self medicate because we have a real reason, and we self medicate just enough – or, at least, those of us left do. And, we cope. Aside from the alcohol, do you know what coping mechanism helps the city the most?"

"Not drugs, those never help in any real substantive way" Batman said. "It can't be anything like that." A moment's silence. "Would 'hope' have a place in this conversation?"

"Hope is as good as any word, yes. We Gothamites hope for a better day. And do you know why Gotham can hope for a better day?"

"No, no I can't" softly from the man seated on the chaise, head lowered in contemplation.

"You" she said. His gaze came up to regard her. "You" she repeated.

"How so?" he asked.

"Because you actually _do_ something, yet yours isn't a self-aggrandizing 'doing' like so many politicians and city officials. You lead the people of Gotham to that better day – not by speeches or press conferences but by actually _doing_ something. Even if that something itself is technically breaking the law."

"I do it because I must" Batman declared.

"No, you 'mustn't'. You do it because you _can_. You do it because it is your self-imposed _duty_. Oh dear… how did Heinlein put it?" Her forefinger tapped her lips. "Ah…'Duty is a debt you owe to yourself to fulfill obligations you have assumed voluntarily.' And…" another sip, "you do it because you're damn good at it. I don't know that I've ever seen you referred to as a 'nice' man. Which is good. You are not a nice man." Batman didn't stiffen at this but continued to regard the woman levelly.

Another sip. "Well, you aren't nice. You routinely beat the snot out of the varied badguys here in Gotham. Responding to violence with violence is _not_ what we teach our children. But, and this is the big but, in this one context violence may very well be justified if indeed violence is ever justified. The jury is still out on that one. Personally, I feel if violence wasn't your last resort, you failed to resort to sufficient violence."

Batman snorted at this last. "Scarcely the tack I'd expect a doctor to take. Especially a woman doctor."

"How refreshingly sexist, Batman. You, you are a traditionalist; I'm a pragmatist. There are indeed some problems that may best be handled by a quick knee to the groin or a right cross to the jaw. Violence to criminals, at the point of suppressing said violence, is a case in point."

"Very well, doctor. I'll concede your thesis. Seeing that your thesis so closely parallels and complements my nightly duties."

"Knew you'd see it my way." Sip, then, set down empty glass. "So, are you dealing?"

"Yes," then, more softly, "yes, I am. Which is the reason for my visit tonight, to thank you for the insight that has helped me these past few weeks."

"Good. Much like you, I live to serve. You are not a nice man, Batman. You _are_ a good man. You are a good man who does good, for the community and, ultimately, for the criminals you apprehend. Being caught by Batman is far safer than confronting a frightened policeman with a gun. A criminal has a better chance to survive having met you." The doctor regarded the caped man on her chaise. "Keep doing that good. The city needs it. You need it."

The Caped Crusader stood and gave a short nod to the doctor. "Thank you. I will, and with your insight, I can." With that he went to the window and was gone into the night.

The doctor stood with a sigh, walked to the window. "How like a man…" she muttered as she closed the window and drew the blinds.

_A/N: For those outside of the US, and there seems to be a fair amount of you, Southern Comfort is a liqueur made from sweetener, fruit flavors and spices and neutral spirits. Originally based on bourbon there is now only the one formulation that uses bourbon and that is available only in duty-free shops. In my youth it was something of a college rite-of-passage to drink SoCo and coke. A recent conversation with a co-worker who is younger than my children says this is till the case. The liqueur has a distinctive, pleasant smell. _


End file.
